Cestius, who rode in the center of the host with King Polemo by his side, became annoyed at the irregular movements on the part of the columns composing the vanguard, who for a time would maintain a march so brisk as to leave a long interval between themselves and the central division, and then, without any apparent cause, would come to a dead halt, moving on again a few minutes afterwards. At last a stop was made of such duration that it brought the whole of the army following to a standstill, thus tending to create a degree of confusion not often witnessed in the Roman ranks. Unable any longer to control his impatience, Cestius, setting spurs to his steed, galloped forward, bent on administering a sharp reproof to the tribune in charge of the vanguard. On being questioned as to the cause of this long halt that officer referred his angry general to the tall and stately figure of a priest, standing a few paces in front of the first rank and bearing in his hand the short _lituus_ or augurial staff. It was Theomantes, priest of Jupiter Cæsarius, the one-time councilor of Florus, but now acting, and that at Cestius’ own wish, as the official augur of the Roman army. The Legate had a high regard for him, but when Theomantes, presuming on this regard, ventured to check the advance of the whole army, he was undoubtedly usurping the authority of the general, an act not to be tolerated. “How now, Theomantes?” cried Cestius angrily. “Why this delay?” “Seest thou yon eagle?” said Theomantes, pointing to an eagle in front of them, poised apparently motionless in the air. “I see it. And what then?” “’Tis the divine director of our march. When it advances, we advance; when it stops, we stop; for so will it be to our advantage.” “And when it retreats, I suppose we must retreat,” sneered Cestius. “Shall a father, bent on the sacred duty of avenging his son, be stayed by a fowl of the air? Fellow, thy bow and arrow,” he cried, addressing a Cretan archer that stood by; and, having received what he had asked for, Cestius fitted a shaft to the string, and, taking aim at the eagle, let fly. The shot was a good one; pierced by the arrow, the eagle dropped to the earth like a falling stone. “Fools!” exclaimed the Legate scornfully, as he noticed the dismayed looks of the superstitious soldiers, “exercise your reason. If yon eagle had the power of foreseeing the future, would it not have kept far hence, and not have flown hither to meet its death by the arrow of Cestius?” “Cestius Gallus,” said the augur, solemnly, “thou hast slain the messenger sent by Jove to direct our march. The wrath of the gods will be upon thee for this. _Thou wilt never take the city._” With this he broke his augurial staff in two, and cast the pieces at Cestius’ feet; then, walking to the roadside, he seated himself upon a crag; and, covering both head and face with his mantle, in token of grief, he added: “Here will I abide till I see thee returning in headlong confusion.”